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the latest waddle:

good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03

elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01

building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19

ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09

my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04

2003-01-27 ... 12:05 p.m.


Right now I am drinking a huge paper cup of green tea. I feel like crap and I believe my appearance matches up with that somatic reality. Dressed for total snuggly comfort in old-man-style sweater and turtleneck, and this morning I was in no mood for the whole brushing and blow-drying routine so I scruggled (yes, scruggled, scruggled is a perfectly good word even if the spellchecker does not agree) my hair into a rubberbanded topknot deal and it is all wispily escaping. My hands are cold. Everything feels a bit unreal. There are eleven reference books and an egg of glow-in-the-dark Silly Putty to the left of me, a calculator, phone, and more piles of paper to the right of me. Some new things I have taped to my monitor, because I am turning into one of those schizophrenic pack-rat ladies, include a postcard of The Scream, of which my favorite part is not the now-iconic foreground figure but those two figures on the bridge, one with his head turned back slightly, wishing that guy would just shut up. (Look, you can color it yourself!) I also taped up a drawing LT did of a chicken smoking a cigarette, because it makes me happy, and because you know that chickens would totally smoke if they indeed had access to cigarettes. The chickens would let the cigarettes dangle from their beaks, because (1) they don't have thumbs with which to hold them and (2) they think it makes them look tough. Thus less likely to be plucked and beheaded and fried.

Time out for two cool things: the XXX-rated Bible and Japanese emoticons.


My dreams are always very text-based and intimate and devoid of the big-budget special effects common to the dreams of those who have spent too much time playing video games. Here is a small roundup from the weekend:

1. I am in a classroom and a guy in a tweed sportcoat and a big blonde mustache is giving this lecture on a word. The word is not a real word: the word is TRANSOOM. He writes it on the blackboard in big looping letters. I am briefly confused and raise my hand to ask if he means TRANSOM, but he just glares at me and goes on talking about TRANSOOM, its history and etymology and literary uses. He over-enunciates ("TRANS-OOOOOOOM") each time he says it and the whole thing strikes me as funny, so I keep trying not to giggle but I can't help it, and soon the whole class is giggling and we all get yelled at.

2. LT and I are the ones who killed JFK, only it didn't happen in the motorcade in Dallas: that was just a coverup and the guy in the Zapruder film was a JFK robot. Even Jackie doesn't know this. We killed him in a hotel room, with a syringe of poison. We break into his room, past all the Secret Service, and JFK is sleeping on his back, shirtless, with this really filthy and smelly back brace on. LT keeps watch while I inject the poison and we sneak out. We are like ruthless master criminals and are really proud of ourselves for pulling this off, and we can't resist filling out a FedEx packing slip with CONTENTS: ONE (1) DEAD PRESIDENT and sticking it to the hotel door, just to show off. Later I am all cockily chatting with a Secret Service guy in the elevator, and he gives me a lecture on gun safety, which he ends with "...and that is why I always keep my service revolver wrapped in bacon."


Last year I think I boycotted the Super Bowl for some reason and stayed home typing and reading. Plus, being a Tivo girl, whenever I watch television I skip over anything that looks like it might make my eyeballs bleed. Who wants bleeding eyeballs? (That is a cool sentence. You can say it in a flip and rhetorical manner, like I just did, or you can yell it out like a suburban dad at a barbecue, spatula in hand, only instead of yelling "WHO WANTS CHEESE?" as you stand over the grill full of hamburgers, you can yell "WHO WANTS BLEEDING EYEBALLS?")

Anyway. Last night I did witness the Super Bowl. I went to a friend's house and the friends did not fast-forward or even mute the commercials, they actually watched and were interested in the commercials. The game was a real snorefest (there weren't even any injuries to speak of) so maybe they had the right idea, but it just seemed a little strange to me. The highlight of the Super Bowl for me was the fucked-up commentary. John Madden mentioned at one point, as it got toward sunset, that the football field was "encased in shadow." Ah! Madden gets poetic! Let us go then, you and I, when the product placements are spread out against the sky, like a linebacker etherized upon a table, for his sixteenth knee replacement surgery! The creepy thing was that apparently the completely batshit John Madden was very very pleased with his turn of phrase so he said "encased in shadow" AGAIN at a different point in the game. I was totally freaked out by this but none of my football-watching companions seemed to be.

And then there was the halftime show thing. Which I have seriously never witnessed before. When I was a kid and my parents used to have Super Bowl parties, halftime was when you stopped watching TV and made more nachos or whatever. Thus I am new to this phenomenon and I beg you to be patient with my wide-eyed incredulity. There was this Shania Twain person, and she was wearing the most complicated outfit I have ever seen. I cannot find a picture of it online but you have to keep looking, seriously, you owe it to yourself, there was this rhinestone brassiere and a vinyl coat with the middle slashed out of it, with pointy cuffs, and more rhinestone chains around her middle, and it was SO VERY TERRIFYING. Then there was Gwen Stefani singing an eight-year-old song, and she also had on a sparkly rhinestone bra, and I wondered if that made Shania Twain mad. Gwen Stefani is also apparently trying to dispel rumors that she is an alien or a clone and thus does not have a navel, or at least that is the only explanation I can think of for her obsessive need to show us her stomach. It is a nice stomach. But we don't need to see it all the time. Then Sting showed up, wearing a red-and-yellow shirt that looked sort of like the required uniform for hot-dog-stand employees, and sang an even older song, and Gwen helped him out a little with that, in a rather flat nasally way. There were lots of fireworks and confetti cannons. The whole thing made me very astounded. Wide-eyed incredulity mode off.


Monday entries are just placeholders, remember? I stick to the facts and I don't get fancy. Saturday night I went and heard The Ponys. If some rave-up era Velvet Underground got real drunk and ran into the Clash in the parking lot, and a drunken fight ensued, and the Kinks owned the bar where the fight was taking place and they called the cops, and one of the cops who showed up was a young Elvis Costello and his partner was Dave Crider from the Mono-Men, and they both got bottles thrown at their heads, that would be a little bit like the sound of the Ponys. It was fun although the Beat Kitchen really needs to invest in some sort of smoke-eating machine, because all those ceiling fans do is push it back down and my eyes really hurt after a while. After the Ponys set we escaped to Ten Cat, which I always love. And Friday was the usual bar talk at another favorite place. What is better than drinking cheap beer and eating pizza and gummi worms for five hours? Not a whole heck of a lot. At one point I went to the bathroom and there was a girl in there (it's a one-person, lockable bathroom) and she says, "It's okay, I'm just putting in eyedrops. Come on in." So I do, but then I just sort of end up standing there because I think: I'm not going to pee while you are in here, since I don't know you at all, so really it would make more sense for me just to wait outside. She sure took a long time to put in her eyedrops, and we chatted for a while, and then she finally left and I locked the door to pee, and only then did I wonder if "I'm just putting in eyedrops" was some sort of subtle bathroom makeout invitation, that I totally overlooked. Not that that is such a tragedy, because I am not NECESSARILY the kind of girl who will just make out with random women, no matter how adorable they are with their Chuck Taylors and their eyedrops. But if I am indeed being macked upon I would like to pick up on it.

Also: the onion domes are back! Hurrah! Hurrah for landmark preservation!

Shutting up now.

---mimi smartypants washed her face with a lettuce leaf.


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